Remember
by Niarisu
Summary: Lt. Col. Roy Mustang traced his finger slowly around the frame of the photograph, feeling the grains of wood beneath his fingers. It had been exactly two years ago that all that the picture stood for had been shattered. [oneshot]


**A/N:** A little oneshot fic to commemerate Remembrance Day.

**Disclaimer:** FMA isn't mine, nor is that little poem at the bottom.

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Lt. Col. Roy Mustang traced his finger slowly around the frame of the photograph, feeling the grains of wood beneath his fingers. He could actually see where his fingers had been, the layer of dust parting wherever his finger happened to be. The photo had been sitting at the back of the drawer for so long; it had accumulated a layer of dust, though it did nothing to mask the photograph, and naught to blanket the torrent of memories, which flooded the Colonel. The once gold-colored frame had faded with the years, leaving behind the carvings in the wood, of vines and of roses, and of flowers, framing the photograph adoringly. The carving engraved within the frame remained, while the color did not, just like how the memories were engraved within Roy's mind.

He sighed, gazing down upon the photograph, a wave of sadness and depression engulfing him. It was around three years ago that the picture had been taken, and exactly two years ago this day that everything that the picture stood for had been shattered.

The picture was one of him and Hughes standing beside each other, Roy's serious expression a nice contrast to Maes' offhanded one. The jovial man's cheerful salute at the Camera summed up all the picture stood for. They were fresh out of the military academy, and proud of it, fully-fledged members of the military, each ready to help protect the citizens of their country to the best of their abilities, their green ideals fresh in their minds. War, to them, was still a glorious thing.

Mustang remembered the day that he entered the academy. He was alone, and had few acquaintances in Amestris apart from his Sensei who had taken him in when he had arrived in the country as a fourteen year old. On the first day, Maes had bumped into him the hallway; a bag slung carelessly over one shoulder, and a camera around his neck. Before Roy had even gotten a good look at him, Maes had cheerfully saluted him, slung his arm around his neck, and proclaimed Roy to be his buddy. And then, he slapped a picture of his parents in Roy's face, and proceeded to ramble about how tearful his parents were when they saw him off. Roy stayed in Maes' presence for a total of fifteen seconds, before bailing away as fast as he could. He remembers thinking that if everyone at the military were nutcases. Later on, the two met again in the mess hall, and Maes had apologized for his rude behavior in the hallway before, before offering to be Roy's friend. When Roy did not reply, and only stared at him, Maes had merely nodded enthusiastically, taking the silence as a yes, and proceeded to ramble off about his family again.

Since then, he had made close friends with Maes Hughes, and had devoted his time between studying Alchemy and his studies at the Academy. Soon after he and Hughes had graduated, Maes had been sent to Ishbal, and Roy had doubled his efforts in alchemy, and obtained a State Alchemist license. It wasn't long before he arrived in Ishbal as well.

Ishbal had been…horrible…

"_Roy? What are you doing here?"_

_The first batch of State Alchemists had arrived, and the newly promoted Major Mustang was among them. Captain Hughes and his unit had been assigned to escort them safely to the commanding tent, where they would receive their orders._

"_As a State Alchemist."_

_Roy was, in a way, glad to see his friend again._

"_You got promoted?"_

_Hughes noted the stars on Roy's epaulettes._

"_Major. All State Alchemists start with that rank. Although, we only really have the power of a Captain._

_Hughes smiled. "Same as me then."_

_It was Roy's turn to stare, and ask the same question he had just been asked. "You got promoted?"_

_Maes grinned. "Not much you have to do here to get promoted. So many people, officers included are dying, that new ones are needed every day. As long as you're alive, you have a good chance."_

That had been the first time that Mustang would get any indication of the death in Ishbal, although, he brushed it off as exaggeration, still unwilling to believe that war was anything but the glorified stories in the textbooks. How wrong he would soon find himself to be…

_Snap. Mustang let his eyes linger on the spark as it traveled quickly towards its target, blue alchemic light lighting up the scene, before bursting into violent flames, engulfing the mother and child in flames. They shrieked in pain.. Quickly, he blocked the screams out, blocked out the memories of the fear upon the woman and the child's eyes, before turning to his next victims._

Since when had he been able to kill so callously, so heartlessly? Was it when he had seen his followers die? Was it when he had seen the dead bodies of friends? Was it when he had nearly been killed by an Ishbalan? When had he accepted their new path of war, one of elimination?

Elimination…such an easy way to pass off indiscriminate slaughter…

_Each and every Ishbalan encountered was to be killed. They were the enemy. They conspired to stir up trouble in Amestrian borders, they traded with Amestris' enemies and obtained arms. It did not matter that it had been a shot from an Amestrian gun that had started the war, all that mattered was that Ishbalans were dogs, were scum, were barbarous, were the enemy…_

_His brain told him it was logical. His heart told him otherwise._

_Snap. A child, probably barely fifteen. The same age that he had been when he had left home, had run away and ended up joining the military; on the fast track to hell. _

_Snap. A young man, an Ishbalan warrior priest judging from his clothing. He lay injured, helpless to do anything to protect those dying in the inferno around him, unable to help even himself._

_These people would die here, in the squalid filth of one of the last 'safe' places, casualties in a pointless war, instigated by those who wished nothing more than to wage war, and then clean out any who opposed them; be it woman, man, or child._

_He understood why some of the others killed. They had seen comrades die in front of their eyes. They had been injured by the warrior priests. It was said that before the State Alchemists had arrived, every one of them, could take down ten Amestrian soldiers. Or, they were driven by hatred; maybe the same hatred that had caused the Fuhrer to call this war in the first place, the same hatred that drove men like Fesseler to needlessly sacrifice lives in order to strike against them._

_And yet, he knew he was expected to kill. After all, it was what he had signed on for. Except, no one really knew exactly –what- they had joined for._

_No one told them about the death rates, casualty rates. No one had told them about the stench of death, the lack of decent food, the sounds of guns going off by your head, the screams of the injured. No one had told them about the horrible feeling when one first took the life of another. No one had told them the pain of seeing a comrade die._

_No, no one had told them._

_Why would they have? It was war. _

_Snap. The building caught on fire. The bodies inside would be burnt in the blaze._

It was near the conclusion of Ishbal that he had met up with Riza Hawkeye again; the first time they had seen each other since the day of her father, his Sensei's funeral. He could remember the day clearly, the gloomy, overcast skies, the chirps of lonely birds upon leafless trees. And the sound of silence. It hung in the air, filling up the space better than any noise could have, suffocating conversation. They had spoken frankly with each other, or rather, had been spoken to by Major Kimbley. Since then, she had kept a "Hawk's Eye" on him.

_They were taking a short break from their work. Both had done a fair amount of damage to the number of Ishbalan fighters still remaining. Mustang had counted, up to maybe a hundred snaps. Useful, since casualties caused by him, usually ended up dead. _

_Hawkeye was in her last year at the military academy, and had a good eye and a steady hand, making her an amazing sniper. Twice, already, she had saved Roy's life from warrior priests who would have otherwise been successful. _

_Mostly, that was her job. Keep an eye on the battle from a distance, snipe off those who appeared to pose a danger. Easy. Besides, killing from that range offered her the illusion of not having someone die on her hands, as well as protecting her from the actual fighting. Later, she would learn that many other final year military cadets at Eastern who had been sent to Ishbal either ended up dead, severely wounded, or shell shocked. In other words, useless, worthless, and unable to lead productive lives—if they had one._

_Once, the Major had asked her why she was there, why she had joined the military at all. "To protect those I love," she had replied, bitterly, citing the lines on her application form. _

"_To protect the citizens of this country. Such naïve dreams, such naïve hopes," Mustang sighed as he continued. "But when we put on these uniforms, were we willing to kill hundreds, thousands for these dreams?" _

_It was a question that had no answer. Or rather, a question that needed no answer._

_Every young man joining the military for the glories of war was driven by a sense of patriotism, a sense of duty towards their country. They were noble reasons to kill for, and they all knew superficially that it was what war entailed, but no one was prepared truly for the bloody scenes. _

_No, Mustang hadn't been prepared either, nor had Hughes at first, but when left long enough, Humans could get used to anything. Even the wholesale murder of other Humans._

At the conclusion of that war, Mustang had sworn to do everything he could to protect those under him, and rise until he had the power to protect every single person in the country. Now, two years later, he was still far from his goal. But he would get there even if he had to wade through a river of blood and corpses, carrying the responsibility to protect the next generation on his shoulders.

Those months in Ishbal had been a desolate time, when sometimes, even Hughes seemed against him. Hughes had always been cheerful, or at least, tried to put on a carefree face for his friend 'as practice for Gracia.' One time, when Hughes had gone to look for Mustang to 'go to work', he had snapped.

"_You'll embrace the woman you love with those hands filthy with blood?"_ he had asked, and had been dragged up by the collar for his efforts. Hughes had given him a good talking down to, and Roy hadn't forgotten. Really, he wouldn't know what he would have done without him there.

"Yo! Roy!"

A cheerful voice shook him out of his reverie as Maes walked in, waving. The man was as cheerful as ever, and he dipped slightly, giving Roy an offhanded salute, before walking up to his desk, and sat himself down upon the desk unceremonially, paperwork crunching under him. He gave the colonel an oblivious grin, which the Colonel did not return.

Roy sat there, staring up at Maes, a weariness in his eyes. Maes' sharp eyes noticed the photograph, resting there in his hands, and the absence of ignition gloves. The man's back was slightly hunched over, and paperwork was scattered around the desk, some under his desk, and some on the windowsill behind him, in which pale light was shinning through, illuminating the room just barely enough for the Colonel to see the photo. But where were his gloves? Shifting his gaze, his eyes finally came upon those gloves, or at least, what used to be of those gloves, sitting in a pile in the corner, completely dissembled, and torn to shreds.

This was messier than he thought.

"Anything new?" Despite the jovial tone of voice, a hint of sadness and concern was hidden in his words.

Mustang shook his head. The man looked drained, but not drained, sad, but not sad, almost as though he were unsure of what to feel at the moment. Maes could see that Mustang felt a little bit of both emotions, and they weren't mixing well. A hint of a grin tugged at the colonel's lips, though it also seemed rather sad, and though the man had turned to Maes, he didn't appear to see him, as though Maes were transparent. If Maes wasn't so at a loss for words right now, he would have described Roy as lost.

"Just…remembering…" he replied. Yes, remembering. Dredging up memories that would be better left buried, buried unlike many whose bodies had been left behind, shot at the roadside and left like dogs.

Maes smiled, a smile that belied the worry he had for his friend. He shifted in his seat, wondering on how to approach this. The man casually glanced over at the picture, and recognized it as their graduation picture. The picture that they had taken just before Ishbal. Memories could be a dangerous thing, especially if it was Ishbal.

"I was wondering if you'd like to go for a drink later, if the Lieutenant would let you off."

And then, Maes grinned, his lips curving upward and when Roy got a good look at the man's eyes, he could have sworn that there were sparkles within them.

"Oh, and Gracia asked me to invite you to dinner." His eyes really were sparkling now. "You wouldn't decline, now would you?"

"She's the best cook ever! Her food is delicious and she's such an angel!"

And then, came the rant.

"Today, she got me breakfast, and packed my bag for me! Oh! And she packed me a lunch as well! I ate every crumb: it was heavenly! I still have the wrapping for the sandwich! I'm going to frame it and hang it on my office wall! Want me to show you? Here, I bought the frame already, but I'm still trying to figure out how I'm going to frame it without it falling out…"

And Roy couldn't help, but break into laughter at this point. At first, the man barely registered Maes' voice, but even his brain, unfocused as it was, couldn't tune out Maes' comical rantings, and he just couldn't help it. He started grinning. Then chuckling, and finally, he broke into boisterous laughter.

The sadness had been wiped away. Sometimes, all it took was a laugh.

"No, it's fine," He finally said, after watching Maes digging around in his bag for the frame and the sandwich wrapper with amusement. "It would be awful if you wrinkled it when you took it out or something." Maes made a face at that, before hastily buckling up his bag.

"So you're coming?" the cheerful man asked curiously, gesturing towards Roy.

Roy chuckled. "No, I wouldn't dream of declining. I'd love to."

"Well then, what are we waiting for?" Maes exclaimed, leaping off the desk dramatically, scattering paperwork onto the ground. He didn't even bother to wait for Roy as he charged out of the office, motioning behind his back urgently for Roy to follow, ranting incoherently something about Gracia being an awesome cook.

Smiling, Roy followed his friend out of the office, grateful for the support he would always offer.

It was one thing that he would always remember.

* * *

_In Flanders Fields, the poppies blow  
Between the crosses, row on row,  
That mark our place; and in the sky  
The larks, still bravely signing fly  
Scarce heard amid the guns below. _

_We are the dead. Short days ago  
We lived, felt dawn, saw susnet glow,  
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie  
In Flanders fields_

_Take up our quarrel with the foe:  
To you from failing hands we throw  
The torch; be yours to hold it high.  
If ye break faith with we who die  
We shall not sleep, though poppies grown  
In Flanders fields_

_-John McCrae_

If you've gotten here, I assume that you've read it, and I thank you for taking the time to read. Is it too much to ask for you to review? No? Please do. Also...may I direct you to **Teachings of Pain**, my ongoing story? Yes yes.

-Sony_  
_


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